


if i'm not ready for honesty between us, (maybe the feeling's mutual)

by tangentiallly



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: (nothing explicit happens but it's pretty much implied they're fwb in this), Don’t copy to another site, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 23:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20647484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangentiallly/pseuds/tangentiallly
Summary: pretenses and masks and practiced smiles, those are always easier





	if i'm not ready for honesty between us, (maybe the feeling's mutual)

**Author's Note:**

> decided to combine my latest e/b oneshots ([1](https://beatricebidelaire.tumblr.com/post/187685045961/)) ([2](https://beatricebidelaire.tumblr.com/post/187370836971/)) on tumblr together, since they're both of the same theme
> 
> disclaimer: I don't own ASOUE

01.

Bertrand felt agitated and off balance. Unable to concentrate on work. Like he was worrying about something but wasn’t sure exactly what he was worrying about. And well - it wasn’t that there was nothing to worry about in his life right now, because there were many things to be worried about - but he couldn’t pinpoint _precisely_ what he was worrying about this exact moment, couldn’t put it into words. He wouldn’t even consider himself to be thinking about any of those particular worries at the moment, because he wasn’t really thinking about anything concrete, just processing things he’s seeing and hearing on a superficial level and processing weird random unrelated thoughts that came to his mind at the same time. 

A tune he couldn’t remember where he heard it from started playing in his head, and he was bouncing his legs at such a high frequency that it didn’t match the rhythm of the tunes but he couldn’t control it. He felt hyper-aware, yet it was hard to describe what exactly was being felt. Hyper-aware but not exactly processing everything that was going on. Felt unusually sensitive and uncomfortable but not sure what about, just like what he wasn’t sure he was feeling. It’s everything and nothing at the same time. He kept getting distracted from his work, then getting distracted from the thing that distracted him in the first place. He felt his attention and focus bouncing all over different places, unable to stay put. There were moments when he wanted to jump out of his skin, whatever that meant.

He kind of wanted to scream, but he didn’t. 

He blamed it on Thursday afternoon. The result of working all week and nearing the weekend but just not quite there yet. “Thursday night is the new Friday,” he remembered Dewey once said, sagely, cleverly, thoughtfully.

He could feel the tension in his shoulders all the way down to his arms, he could feel the tightness inside his body, like everything all squeezed and crunched together. Sometimes tension helped him focus, but not on a day like today, when he’s all tense yet distracted. Worry and agitation bubbled inside him, and he’d been ignoring a pile of letters that possibly contained urgent secret messages on his desk.

Just because he was feeling distracted from his own work that didn’t mean he wanted to process communication with other people. No. Sometimes those were worse than working on a heavy project all alone. Those required extra energy, which he was currently wasting on being nervous right now already and had no more to spare for things like messages. Whatever people wanted to say, that would have to wait.

He was still slowly getting some work done, he was aware of that. It was just … not much progress and it felt like slowly slouching on towards the end of the day. Step by fucking step. He was going to lose his mind. His shoulders were starting to hurt a little because he’d been so tense. He wished he wasn’t so easily distracted, this felt horrible. Trying to make himself stay focused instead of giving in to check some other book or just pace around the room, but ultimately unsuccessful.

He almost forgot that Ernest and him were supposed to meet up, like they scheduled last time, until the hotel manager pushed open the room. Well, he didn’t exactly forget, per say, he just kind of let it drifted to the back of his mind and it was rapidly resurfacing now. He tried to press down his unease and summon a smile. It was tight and odd but it was nevertheless a smile, he hoped it would do. Truthfully, he wished they were meeting on another day, because he’d rather be in his top form, perfect smiles and perfectly calculated casualness when dealing with E. Not his current off-balance state.

But he didn’t say any of that, of course.

“Hi,” he greeted, still keeping the smile. He could do this, he told himself.

* * *

Bertrand was smiling, Ernest noticed as he walked in the room, but there was a certain alarmedness and anxiousness in it, despite his attempting in hiding it. His eyes were darting around, a little unfocused. 

Ernest studied him for a moment, realizing how tight and almost odd the smile was. Like he was trying very very hard and it was taking up all his energy to do that – something Ernest had previously thought Bertrand had already been very practiced at and shouldn’t require much effort.

A part of him wanted to ask Bertrand what was wrong, but an even bigger part was afraid to find out. Curiosity killed the cat, after all. Plus, he wasn’t actually that curious. He’d rather some things stayed secret, making it easier for both of them to continue the casualness. He knew the masks were masks and the pretenses were false and pleasantries were just pleasantries nothing more - but he liked things that way. Because it was easy and fun that way. He wasn’t ready to dig deeper yet.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready.

He knew he shouldn’t stay. Bertrand might be hiding his efforts and unease well, but it was still visible enough - and if this was the part he wasn’t careful enough to conceal, who knew what the unconcealed parts looked like? Ernest wasn’t sure if he really wanted to find out.

But Ernest knew that considering Bertrand, he would try his best to maintain a facade of being fine, a mask of pleasantness, and Ernest felt that it seemed too cruel to make him do so all night long. The kindest thing would probably be for him to leave now, saving Bertrand from having to use up all his energy in just pretending when he clearly didn’t feel up to his game tonight. Plus, he doubted either of them wanted this to end in some genuine, heartfelt comforting. That just wasn’t the way they were.

Ernest made up his mind. “Hi,” he smiled apologetically, “I actually came to tell you that some unexpected thing came up to night, and I’m afraid I have to cancel. Sorry for the late notice. Raincheck?”

Because Ernest was paying attention, it was hard not to notice the relief that flitted across Bertrand’s face and the slight relaxation in his posture. “Sure, no problem.” His smile was still taut and not exactly right, and it almost hurt a little to look at.

Almost.

After Ernest left the room, he headed straight down to the underwater library. “Dewey, I need a favor,” he said, dropping down in one of the sofas in the library.

Dewey looked up from the book he was reading, “Yeah?”

“Well, some time later tonight - not right now - you should check on B - see if he’s alright.”

Dewey looked at him, and didn’t say anything for a while, but his gaze was knowing, almost sympathetic. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Okay.”

* * *

* * *

02\. 

“I’ve heard about what happened last week at the opera,” Ernest said, as casually as he could, as if he was talking about the weather, or poetry, or some random gossip. The same way he’d said “I’ve heard Gustav got Monty 13 new snakes for his birthday” just earlier.

Bertrand, who was just midway slipping his feet back into his shoes, froze for a moment before starting to pull his feet out of the shoes again, curling his legs up back onto the bed again, and turned slightly to look at Ernest.

Their eyes met, then Bertrand looked away first.

“I suppose now you’re about to lecture me on how horrible VFD is and how neither side really has any moral superiority over the other how I should’ve rebelled against the order,” Bertrand said, trying to make his tone sound joking. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. _Please lecture me on how horrible VFD is and how wrong a decision I’ve made please please please_, he thought, a little desperately._ Those are the arguments you’re good at, right? Please._

He couldn’t stand another VFD elder praising how well the poison dart mission had gone and listening to “we did what he had to do” from a mission partner wasn’t helping either, despite him saying the same line back too, as if this made it easier for them to convince themselves.

If he had to hear another higher up nodded approval at how they “could manage to keep personal friendship and relationships separated from an important mission”, he felt like he would accidentally break a teacup he was holding at that time.

Ernest was about to say “I would never do that” because he wouldn’t, not to Bertrand, anyway. He’d have many scathing comments he would make if this is Kit Snicket he was talking to, he had many things he wanted to call her out on if she was here - there was a list. Alphabetized, even. But he couldn’t even_ begin_ to imagine saying any of those to Bertrand.

Except he noticed the odd, almost intense way Bertrand was looking at him, and it took a few moments before realization suddenly dawned on him and puzzle pieces clicking into place. He dropped his previous pretense and feigned casualness for a moment and asked, half-incredulous, “Is that a _plea_?”

The silence that followed uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the quiet “maybe” that answered the question. Despite the ambiguity of the word itself and how noncommittal it could be in most circumstances, it was too telling right now. Ernest felt like it was the most honest moment that ever passed between them - too real, too exposing, too unlike what either of them was used to when conversing with each other.

He suddenly remembered what Georgina Orwell had said last month when they’d run into each other at a meeting he’d kept secret from his brothers. “Honestly,” she had scoffed, “he’s just as problematic and tightly tethered to their side as your least favorite Snicket is, you’re just ignoring that because he avoids arguing about it unlike her and you think he’s pretty.”

He pushed that memory away, and when he refocused again, Bertrand had schooled in the previous vulnerability behind a deliberate neutral expression. “Sorry,” he said, voice slightly tense though mostly devoid of emotions, “could we pretend the last five minutes didn’t happen?”

It was so tempting to say yes and then just moved on. It made so much sense to agree with his request and went on as before. It was the easy way out. The ideal solution, really.

It was tempting, to pretend this never happened. Because as much as he liked Bertrand and as much as he liked the dance, the artful conversations, the sly digging for information, the figurative masks and disguises and trying to figure out what was hidden underneath - as enjoyable as all those were - he didn’t think he was ready for what’s underneath. Subtly trying to fish for information was one thing, actually seeing emotions behind the cheerful mask was another. One he suspected he didn’t actually want to face.

The chase was fun, trying to discover the real him was fun - but actually getting that, actually facing the real him? That was too much.

Deep down, he’d always suspected they disagreed on many things. They just never talked about it openly so they never had the chance to fight about it. So it was all delightful and fun conversations without pain. “I doubt either of you would be able to handle the real version of each other,” he remembered Frank had once remarked. He’d wanted to believe that wasn’t true, and _yet_ -

It’s very, very tempting to say yes and then just proceed to pretend this conversation never happened.

So he said, “Yes. Sure.” Because it was the only reasonable, only logical conclusion he could come to.

An awkward pause followed, and then Ernest forced himself to say, cheerfully, “Well, I need to get back to work. Serving the customers, ensuring the cash flow coming in. The usual.”

“Right. Of course.” Bertrand said immediately, and then exhaled. “I’ll show myself out.”

“Alright. Uh - see you.”

* * *

Bertrand closed his eyes and leaned against the wall immediately when the elevator door closed again. The elevator started moving downwards, as fitting a metaphor as any for his current feeling.

He wasn’t sure how he’d temporarily let his guard down and revealed too much in front of Ernest. He still couldn’t believe he’d been so guilt-ridden and so desperate to hear someone condemn him directly about the opera night that he’d actually admitted this to _Ernest Denouement_, of all people, just in hopes that he would.

Ernest and him, they didn’t do heart-to-heart, or blunt honesty, or anything of that sort. It wasn’t how they were, never had been.

What was he_ thinking_?

The elevator reached the lobby, and he slowly opened his eyes and started walking out, feeling numb. When he passed by the reception desk, Frank frowned at him and said, “Are you alright?”

Bertrand stopped and trying to summon a weak smile that didn’t really appear, “Do I look that awful?”

“You’re wearing that blank mask again and you look more tense than casual.” Frank said rather flatly. “Did my brother do something?”

_It’s what he didn’t do, maybe. Or what I did, probably._ “Not exactly.”

Frank studied him. “You want to talk? I can get a concierge to take over here.”

Bertrand hesitated. “I don’t - I don’t know.”

“How about,” Frank said slowly. “Do you want to listen to my opinion?”

Bertrand frowned. “You don’t really know what just happened,” he pointed out.

“I have suspicions,” Frank said, looking into Bertrand’s eyes. “Just an offer, anyway.”

Bertrand considered, and Frank waited patiently. In general, he didn’t mind listening to Frank’s opinions - and Frank could get quite opinionated about certain things, at least when he didn’t have to disguise his identity.

Well, there was nothing to lose, supposedly.

“Yeah,” he agreed slowly. His shoulders sagged in what felt like an odd mix of relief, general tiredness, and a sudden wave of gratefulness. Because whatever else, he could trust Frank to speak truthfully without worrying about whether he should say something or not. And Bertrand had always suspected that despite how Frank presented himself in front of VFD higher ups, if he was entirely aligned with the organization without any criticisms, he wouldn’t be running this hotel with a brother who was more than halfway over to the other side. It’s probably good to listen to his opinion on this. “Okay.”

Frank waved a concierge over.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi on tumblr](https://beatricebidelaire.tumblr.com)


End file.
